Chapter 3 - Doctor Number One Hundred
Three days later, Nathan placed my scans against the light board.
“There.”
I saw nothing.
“That's a spine.”
“Congratulations.”
“Don't be sarcastic.”
“I've been looking at scans for eight years.”
“And people have been looking at the wrong problem.”
That got my attention.
Nathan pointed toward several images.
“The original injury was severe. Nobody disputes that. But the neural pathways aren't completely destroyed.”
“Then why can't I walk?”
Nathan hesitated.
“Because the injury may only be part of the story.”
“What is the other part?”
“Trauma.”
I stared at him.
“My wife died beside me. I don't need a psychiatrist to explain trauma.”
“I'm not talking about sadness.”
Nathan pulled up another scan.
“Your nervous system may have developed a functional block after the accident.”
“So my brain decided I couldn't walk?”
“That's oversimplified.”
“Try me.”
“The pathways exist. But for years your brain has behaved as though they don't.”
I laughed bitterly.
“Ninety-nine doctors missed that?”
“Medicine changes.”
“Or doctors make mistakes.”
“Yes.”
At least he admitted it.
Nathan faced me.
“The movement Lily triggered matters because it happened when your conscious control dropped.”
“So the child is treatment?”
“No.”
“Good.”
“She's eight.”
“I'm aware.”
“But whatever she accidentally unlocked gives us somewhere to start.”
That afternoon, Lily arrived carrying two baseball caps.
She placed one on my head.
It said COACH.
“No.”
“Yes.”
“No.”
She put the other on her head.
It said BOSS.
I stared at her.
“You've reversed those.”
“I don't think so.”
Ethan laughed from the doorway.
Over the next several weeks, Nathan built an aggressive rehabilitation program around those tiny movements.
Progress came slowly.
Toe movement became ankle movement.
Ankle movement became muscle contractions.
Some days nothing happened.
Those were the dangerous days.
Not because of my body.
Because of my temper.
One afternoon I threw a therapy strap across the room.
“Enough.”
Nathan didn't move.
“We've been working twenty minutes.”
“I said enough.”
Lily was doing homework nearby.
She looked up.
“You quit fast.”
I turned toward her.
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me.”
Grace immediately intervened.
“Lily.”
But the girl stood.
“My grandpa practiced saying my name for eleven months.”
I said nothing.
“He couldn't say it after his stroke. He kept trying.”
She walked closer.
“Eleven months.”
My anger disappeared.
“Did he manage?”
She nodded.
“The first time it sounded terrible.”
Nathan laughed.
Lily smiled.
“But I knew it was my name.”
I looked at the parallel bars.
Then at my legs.
“Help me up.”
Nathan's smile vanished.
“Caleb, we're not there yet.”
“Help me up.”
“No.”
“You just spent twenty minutes telling me not to quit.”
“And now I'm telling you not to be stupid.”
Lily whispered to Ethan:
“I like Doctor One Hundred.”
So did I.
Which was precisely why I listened.
But that evening Marco came into my office carrying a file.
His expression told me this had nothing to do with rehabilitation.
“We have a problem.”
“What?”
“Grace Bennett.”
I looked up.
“What about her?”
“She didn't come to work here by accident.”
Marco placed a photograph on my desk.
It showed Grace's father, Thomas Bennett.
Beside him stood another doctor.
A much younger doctor.
I recognized him immediately.
He had treated me eight years ago.
After the accident.
Before I'd lost Audrey.
Before I'd lost my legs.
“What am I looking at?”
“Thomas Bennett consulted on your case.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“My records contain every specialist.”
“Not him.”
Marco placed another document down.
“Because someone removed his name.”
I stared at it.
“Why?”
“We're still investigating.”
Then Marco showed me a handwritten note recovered from an archived medical file.
One sentence had been underlined.
Patient demonstrates preserved motor response. Prognosis may not be permanent.
The date was eight years ago.
My hands tightened around the paper.
“Who wrote this?”
“Thomas Bennett.”
The room went silent.
Eight years.
Ninety-nine doctors.
Eight years believing there was no hope.
May you like
And somewhere, someone had known there might be.
“Bring Grace to me.”
